‘Well, whoever was my daughter’s real saviour, you or the immortals,’ said the king, ‘we are grateful for what you have done. We will return now to our city and make sacrifices to the gods. And we invite you to join our celebrations.’
‘I would not wish to claim your daughter’s hand,’ said Perseus, ‘without asking her first. If she is unwilling, I will leave at once, but if she consents, then let us by all means celebrate our marriage as soon as possible.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ said the king. ‘She will certainly be unwilling since she is already engaged to our neighbour, King Agenor.’
‘You never mentioned that when I asked you for her hand in return for saving her,’ said Perseus unhappily.
‘Didn’t I? It all happened so quickly. I was about to mention it when you leapt off the cliff. You left the words in my mouth.’
Perseus now understood what sort of man he was dealing with and began to be angry.
‘I will remind you, sir, of exactly what you said: ‘If you save her, you can have her’. Those words rang in my ears as I left the cliff, as I attacked the monster, as my blade cut through the monster’s head and as I freed and lifted your daughter to safety. I find no room next to those words for further words taking back the promise you made.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the king without any note of apology, ‘but I’m afraid my obligation to King Agenor precedes any obligation I may have to you.’
‘I think, on the contrary, that your words cancelled any previous obligation, but as I said before I will not marry your daughter without her consent. So let her choose between me and King Agenor.’
‘She is in no state to make such a choice,’ said the queen, ‘and even if she were, I would have to forbid her to do so. She must marry King Agenor as arranged. We are obliged to you for your rescue and would like to show our gratitude by entertaining you in our palace, but let that be the end of the matter. You are a complete stranger to us and we cannot allow you on the strength of words uttered at a moment of extreme stress to claim a reward which is no longer ours to give.’
‘Stranger I may be,’ said Perseus, ‘but I don’t think any of your friends or relations were going to save your daughter from certain death. Your stress would have been a great deal more extreme if I had not arrived in the nick of time. She would not be marrying this King Agenor or anyone else. I think I have at least won the right to speak to the princess herself.’
At this point the crowd, which had been listening intently to the argument, began to join in. They were angry and ashamed at the double-dealing of their king and queen and impressed by Perseus’ dignified restraint. Several shouted that the princess should be allowed to speak. Others remarked that it was entirely the queen’s fault that many people had lost their lives or their livelihood and that her daughter had been exposed for the monster. As their mood grew uglier, the king said:
‘We cannot resolve this matter here and now. Let us all return to the city! We will celebrate Andromeda’s rescue and the stranger’s courage in proper style and then, when she has rested and recovered from her ordeal, let the princess decide whom she wishes to marry.’
But as the crowd streamed away, carrying the princess and Perseus in triumph down to their nearby city, and as preparations were made for sacrifices to the gods and a public banquet in the plateia, the king sent a messenger to King Agenor telling him what had happened and advising him to come quickly and claim his bride.
Perseus too received a messenger as he sat among the people in the plateia, accepting their thanks and admiration and waiting for the celebrations to begin. One of the ladies-in-waiting who had been with the princess came and whispered to him that Andromeda had never consented to marry King Agenor. Her parents had constantly tried to persuade her, she said, and would probably in the end have compelled her, since they feared Agenor, who was a more powerful king and a fierce warrior. But Andromeda sent this message: if Perseus really loved her, nothing would make her happier than to be his wife, though she warned him that her parents and Agenor would do everything they could to prevent it and she did not want Perseus to risk his life for her a second time. Perseus told the woman to reply that he would prefer to lose his life than lose Andromeda.
The sacrifices had been completed, the meat was roasting, the wine was beginning to flow and all the citizens were toasting their princess and her saviour, seated with the king and queen at a special table in the centre of the plateia, when there was a sudden disturbance. The crowd scattered as a band of about fifty horsemen emerged from the main street and pulled up on one side of the plateia. Their leader, a heavily built middle-aged man with a thick black beard and a hawk’s nose, jumped down from his horse and strode up to the table.
‘Celebrations, are there?’ he said. ‘What is the occasion?’
Cepheus rose to greet him.
‘Welcome, sir! You are just in time to join us. My daughter Andromeda was to be a sacrifice to the sea monster sent by Poseidon, but she was rescued by this young man at the very last moment.’ Turning to Perseus, he said, ‘This is King Agenor who, as I told you, is to marry our dear daughter.’
Perseus, unarmed except for his sickle and knife, looked at this large man in full armour and his retinue of armed warriors and knew that, whatever he said, Cepheus had so arranged it that Perseus must either fight or abandon his claim to marry Andromeda. He decided, therefore, that there was little point in trying to be polite or subtle with a person who looked and sounded and swaggered like a bully. The people would perhaps take his side but, nervously huddled at the edges of the plateia, they were unarmed and evidently already intimidated.
‘You did tell me that,’ said Perseus to Cepheus, ‘but only after you had promised me that if I saved Andromeda’s life you would give me her hand in marriage. That promise was made in the presence of many of your people and I regard it as binding.’
There was a subdued murmur of agreement from the crowd, but no one dared to stand out and be identified.
‘Who is this whippersnapper?’ said Agenor with a sarcastic smile.
‘My name is Perseus.’
‘And where did you spring from?’
‘I was brought up on the island of Seriphos.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Probably not. But I was born in Argos, which I’m sure you have heard of, in the king my grandfather’s palace.’
‘And your father’s name?’
‘I believe it is Zeus.’
‘You believe! Any puppy can believe that. It generally means that the mother was a whore.’
‘Your offensive words,’ said Perseus, ‘and your brutish manners make it clear that you are no fit husband for the princess Andromeda. However, as far as I am concerned, in spite of her father’s promise to me, the choice of husband must be hers.’
‘Choice!’ said Agenor. ‘There is none. She is to marry me and I am here to take her.’
Perseus made no reply, but turned to look at Andromeda, still seated at the table. She looked at him for a moment, her green eyes shining, and smiled.
‘I choose Perseus,’ she said.
The people round the square drew in their breath. One or two clapped their hands in applause, but quickly stopped as they saw Agenor’s hand go to his sword and his horsemen also touch their weapons. Many in the crowd began to slink away or prepare to do so. Cassiopeia whispered urgently to Andromeda. Cepheus said to Agenor:
‘My daughter is naturally disturbed after her ordeal and grateful to the young man who saved her life. But you are right that she has no choice. She is to marry you.’
Perseus moved away from the table and stood face to face with Agenor. They were about the same height, but Perseus was half Agenor’s width.
‘What now, Agenor?’ he said. ‘Will you attempt to carry off the princess against her will and in spite of the promise made to me by her father? Or will you join our celebrations for Andromeda’s escape from death and return to your own city in peace?’
>
‘I will dispose of you, for a start, son of a whore,’ said Agenor and drawing his sword from his belt thrust it at Perseus’ midriff.
Perseus parried the stroke with the adamantine sickle. The sickle cut through Agenor’s bronze blade and left him holding little more than the hilt. Astonished and dismayed, he flung the useless weapon down on the flagstones and retreated a few paces, as a muted cheer went up from the citizens.
‘You take his side, do you, miserable people?’ shouted Agenor. ‘You will regret it when your homes are burnt and you are made slaves.’
He gestured to his warriors, who advanced further into the square, while one of them trotted forward and handed him another sword. Perseus, meanwhile, had stood his ground but made no attempt to attack his disarmed opponent, hoping that he might accept defeat without bloodshed. Seeing that he did not and that he was now again armed, Perseus ran at him and, dodging Agenor’s sword, severed the hand that held it. Bellowing with pain and fury and with blood pouring from his wound, Agenor staggered backwards.
‘Kill them! Kill them all!’ he shouted to his warriors.
Most of the people began running away. The king and queen and their attendants, still seated at their table, rose and hurried towards the palace, but Andromeda would not go with them. She never took her eyes off Perseus and so was almost the only person, except for a few of the fugitives glancing in terror over their shoulders as they ran, who saw Perseus put on the helmet of Hades and vanish. Then, as the horsemen surged across the plateia and pulled up in confusion at Perseus’ disappearance, she saw a fearful head with snaky hair rise suddenly into the air, its face, invisible to her, directed at the horsemen. And as they saw it, they froze, they and their horses, and turned to stone. To begin with, there were a few exceptions, horses which hadn’t looked at the head and remained alive with stone riders on their backs, or living men whose legs were suddenly gripping stony flanks, but within a few minutes all were calcified.
Agenor himself, slumped against a monument at the centre of the plateia, trying to stanch his bleeding wrist, did not immediately look up; and so had time, as he raised his eyes in the sudden absence of hoofbeats, shouts and the snorting of horses, to see his stone warriors all around him, before he too, utterly bewildered, looking for Perseus, caught sight of Medusa’s face hanging in the air and instantly became part of the monument he rested on.
Slowly in the silence the people filtered back, gazing with disbelief, shaking their heads, speaking in hushed voices, to see the fifty equestrian statues and the petrified but still life-like fallen king with the missing hand which their plateia had so suddenly acquired. Perseus, visible again without his helmet and having restored Medusa’s head to his satchel, took Andromeda for the second time in his arms. Cepheus and Cassiopeia came out of their palace and, concealing their chagrin as best they could, ordered their herald to announce the wedding of their daughter to her saviour, who had also, single-handed, saved the city.
6. THE RETURN
As soon as the wedding had been celebrated, Perseus told his still shamefaced parents-in-law that he must return to his island and that Andromeda wished to go with him. There was no question of his winged sandals carrying them both over such a distance, so Cepheus provided his own stout sailing ship with 30 oarsmen to sail across the Ionian Sea and round the Peloponnese to Seriphos. He was glad enough to be rid of a son-in-law whose popularity far surpassed his own, even at the price of losing his daughter.
Before leaving, Perseus made sacrifices to Athene and Hermes, begging them to take his part with Poseidon, who might otherwise wish to revenge himself for the killing of his monster by rousing a storm and sinking their ship. He also made a sacrifice to Poseidon, pleading with him that it was not Andromeda but her mother who had insulted the Nereids. As their ship left harbour it was escorted for several miles by a school of dolphins, and Perseus took this to be Poseidon’s sign of forgiveness. At any rate, the wind favoured them and their voyage was calm and swift.
The ship landed Perseus and Andromeda early in the morning on Diktys’ side of the island, but the beach was deserted. Perseus led his bride immediately to Diktys’ house and found it barricaded, with several villagers keeping watch outside. As soon as they saw Perseus, the door was unbolted and Diktys came out.
‘My mother?’ asked Perseus.
‘Safe inside,’ said Diktys, ‘but not for long. My brother has announced that he will marry her, whether she agrees or not, and that he will come for her tomorrow. Tonight he is celebrating with his friends and we, as you see, are making what preparations we can to resist him. It’s a miracle that you’ve arrived just in time to help us, but I’m afraid we are too few to hold out long against the numbers and weapons he can command.’
‘Since I last saw you,’ said Perseus, ‘I have cut off Medusa’s head, I have done the same to a sea monster that was sent to devour this princess, and I have defeated a force of 50 armed horsemen whose king wished to make her his wife against her will. I tell you this not to boast of my exploits but to show you that I will never let Polydektes have his way with my mother.’
After embracing Danaë, introducing her to Andromeda and thanking the sailors, who were sent home to Sicily with fresh provisions and polite greetings to Andromeda’s parents, Perseus went up to the temple of Athene to make a sacrifice. He hoped that she or Hermes might appear to him again and give him instructions, but when they did not, told himself that gods do not intervene when they have no need to and that therefore he must act as he thought best and assume that they approved.
Taking leave of Andromeda, Danaë and Diktys, he set off alone over the hill to Polydektes’ house, wearing the winged sandals and carrying the helmet of Hades and the satchel containing Medusa’s head, with the adamantine sickle in his belt. He did not fly or wear the helmet because he considered that these magical things should be used only in emergencies and he had plenty of time to cross the island in the normal way. When he came in sight of the town he sat down for a while, waiting for the sun to set. He did not want anyone to recognise him before he entered Polydektes’ hall.
As soon as it was dark he put on the helmet and entered the town. Already he could hear the noise and see the lights of Polydektes’ celebration. The outer door of the house was open and the servants either side of it, sensing the presence of something solid, a displacement of air, but seeing nothing, looked at each other with startled faces as he passed between them. Perseus entered the hall, where Polydektes’ friends and supporters, twenty or more of them, were reclining at the long table while servants brought them food and wine. Polydektes himself was at the far end, his face flushed, his voice loud and triumphant as he raised his cup of wine.
‘To my lovely bride of tomorrow!’ he shouted and all his guests raised their cups and repeated the toast.
Perseus, standing just inside the entrance, removed his helmet and waited. He waited some time, since they were all so intent on their food and drink and loud conversation that no one looked up or, if they did, assumed that this silent standing figure was a servant or the steward. At last, one of the servants, brushing past him with a dish of octopus, glanced at his face and immediately recognised him as the youth they had all long since given up for dead.
‘Perseus!’ he said, loud enough to be heard by the nearest diners.
And as they and then their neighbours glanced his way and fell silent, the conversation gradually died away all down the table.
‘What is the matter?’ shouted Polydektes from his place at the end, still oblivious of the intruder.
‘Perseus is here,’ said the man on his left.
‘Perseus, Perseus!’ repeated the guests.
Polydektes rose to his feet.
‘Perseus!’ he said. ‘Welcome to our feast, dear boy! You crown our celebration. I shall marry your mother in the morning.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Perseus.
‘What? Have you come home to tell me that you’ve failed in your task?’
‘No, I’ve brought you what you asked for.’
‘Have you indeed? A horse, is it? A little gold? I asked you for something a bit more special than that. Remember?’
‘I remember very well. I have brought you the head of Medusa.’
Polydektes laughed and all his guests laughed with him. Perseus held up the bat-skin satchel.
‘Here it is,’ he said.
Polydektes laughed again.
‘What a liar!’ he said. ‘Your trip abroad has not improved your character, Perseus. You used to be a truthful boy.’
‘When I left Seriphos,’ said Perseus, ‘it was to fetch the head of Medusa so that you could take it to King Oinomaos of Elis and win the hand of his daughter Hippodameia. Now you say that you will marry my mother against her will. It seems that you are the liar.’
‘No one calls me a liar,’ said Polydektes, ‘you had better withdraw that word or you’ll regret it.’
‘I will certainly withdraw it if you can say that you will not marry my mother.’
‘Of course I shall marry her. Take this insolent boy out of my hall and give him a thrashing!’
Two servants moved uncertainly towards Perseus, but he pushed them aside.
‘Must I show you what I’ve brought?’
‘You’re beginning to annoy me!’ said Polydektes, picking up his knife. ‘Liars should have their tongues cut out, and that’s what I’m going to do to you.’
He left his place and moved up the table towards Perseus, while his guests gloatingly encouraged him.
‘Do it, do it, Polydektes!’
‘Get hold of the little bastard!’ said Polydektes, brandishing his knife.
Many of the guests were now on their feet, but none quite dared to lay hands on Perseus. Even Polydektes stopped and stared as Perseus, holding his helmet under one arm, loosened the top of the satchel and put his hand inside.
‘This is what I promised to bring you,’ said Perseus. ‘Do you really want to see it?’
Arcadian Nights Page 24
